


Like Riding a Bike

by PhrancesP



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:09:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3797932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhrancesP/pseuds/PhrancesP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Robinson wonders if it is true that there are some things the body never forgets how to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Riding a Bike

Like Riding a Bike  
PhrancesP

Thank you to Kerry Greenwood for creating the bewitching Phryne Fisher, and thank you to Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries for casting a spell on viewers in Australia and beyond.

This story is set just before the beginning of Series 3. It is a scene of anticipation.

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson sat at his desk, behind the closed doors of his office at the City South police station. He was ostensibly busy with some important paperwork related to the investigation of a gruesome series of murders in the mountains during the July holidays. In reality he was trying to remember how to have sex. It had been so long. Of course, he trusted that his body would remember what to do, when it came right down to it. But, would he be able to make the necessary overtures? Would he be able to seduce a lady? Was he a great lover? These were his real concerns, for it now seemed possible that he would have a chance to find out.

The object of his reverie, the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher, was his partner in crime. Together they had found clues and faced down murderers. He had known for months, almost years at this point, that he was physically attracted to Miss Fisher, but his feelings for her had deepened, almost without his awareness of the fact. He had had a brutal awakening when he had thought her dead in a car crash. Unbearable. He would not have been able to bear the pain of losing her. That was his truth, and he had attempted to wall it off by breaking their professional partnership. Of course, it had not lasted. Miss Fisher had turned up again and again, and Jack had finally admitted that the sum of their work together was better than their individual parts.

The new truce had made life easier. At this point they were able to work together without too much conflict or strife. Most of the time Jack parried Phryne’s flirtatious comments and caresses, even if he noticed them with every nerve in his body. Sometimes he was tongue-tied, his heart in his mouth, when he was with her. Lately he thought she seemed more serious, more intent, when they were together. 

It was time to try, he thought. Time to dust off himself as a man, as a lover. He couldn’t even picture that last time, with Rosie. Of course, he hadn’t known then that it would be their last time together. Their marriage had been fading away, but they had had a few moments of intimacy before it ended, for good. Jack wondered if he would have treated his last time with Rosie differently, if he had known. The truth was, he thought, she had probably already started her affair with Sidney Fletcher. Maybe she had even been comparing them. 

Jack leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. “Shake it off,” he said softly. Jack allowed himself to dream. Phryne’s red lips, her smooth black hair, her delicate collarbone. He wandered down her body, in his imagination, wondering what he would find when he finally had the chance to see her, and feel her, for himself. He remembered her glowing skin, covered in skeins of jewels and chains, on display at the Imperial Club. He thought about her at Queenscliff, under the boardwalk, licking fish and chips off her fingertips. Jack’s eyes closed. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, remembering Phryne’s insistent fingers as she urged him into “one gaudy night.” He could smell her perfume, and he could feel her hand in his at the séance. He saw himself with her, in the window seat in her parlor, as he told her about his childhood dreams of being a cyclist. He could feel her mouth, trembling under his own, at Café Replique, as he held her, shielding her from danger.

“Like riding a bike, old man,” he told himself, as his hand wandered down, below his desk, to his trousers. It would be hard, but anything was possible. “Like riding a bike.”


End file.
